What am I even thinking?

“Are you okay?”

I nod, flustered. “Thank you for getting here so quickly.”

He looks away. He may be flushing. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m so sorry to disrupt your evening. I tried to call Rocío, but she was . .

. I’m not sure where.”

“I’m glad you called me.”

Is he? I seriously doubt it. “Anyway, thank you so much.

How can I return the favor? Can I pay for gas?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh, there’s no need. I’m just five minutes away.”

“It’s pitch black and there are no sidewalks.” He holds the passenger door open, and I have no choice but to get in. Whatever. I can survive one more minute in close proximity with him.

The inside of his truck is pristine and smells good—not something I believed possible—with a handful of Lärabars in the back that make my stomach cramp with hunger, and a half-full CamelBak that I’d risk his germs for. He also drives a stick shift. Hmph. Show-off.

“You’re staying at the lodging facilities, right?”

I nod, pulling at the hem of my shorts. I don’t like how high they ride when I sit. Not that Levi would ever voluntarily look at my thighs, but I’m a

bit self-conscious, since Tim used to make fun of me for being bowlegged.

And Annie would defend me, growl at him that my legs were perfect and his opinion was unnecessary, and I would—

The truck starts. A familiar voice fills the cabin, but Levi quickly switches to NPR. I blink. The anchor is talking

about mail-in ballots. “Was that . . . Pearl Jam?”

“Yeah.”

“Vitalogy?”

“Yep.”

Humph. Pearl Jam’s not my favorite, but it’s good, and I hate that Levi likes good music. I need him to love Dave Matthews Band. To stan the Insane Clown Posse. To have a Nickelback tramp stamp. It’s what I deserve.

“What were you doing in a cemetery?” he asks. “Just . . . running.”

“You run?” He sounds surprised. Offensively so.

“Hey, I know I look like a wimp, but—”

“You don’t,” he interjects. “Look like a wimp, I mean. Just, in grad school you . . .”

I turn to him. The corner of his mouth is curving upward. “I what?”

“Once you said that time spent working out is time one never gets back.”

I have no memories of saying that. Especially to Levi, since we exchanged approximately twelve words at Pitt. Though it does sound like something I’d say. “As it turns out, the higher your aerobic fitness, the healthier your hippocampus. Not to mention the overall connectivity of your Default Mode Network and multiple axon bundles, so . . .” I shrug. “I find myself resentfully acknowledging that according to science, exercise is a good thing.” He chuckles. Crow’s-feet crinkle the corners of his eyes, and it makes me want to continue. Not that I care about making him laugh. Why would I? “I’m doing this Couch-to-5K program, but . . . ew.”

“Ew?”

“Ew.”

His smile widens a millimeter. “How long’s the program?”

“Four weeks.”

“How long have you been on it?”

“Couple weeks.”

“What distance are you up to?”

“. . . Point two miles. I hit the wall. On, um, minute three.” He gives me a skeptical glance. “To be fair, this is only my second time running since I was in middle school.”

“The heat here is terrible. You might want to run in the morning. But you’re not a morning person, right?” He bites his lip pensively. I wonder how he could possibly know that, and realize that sadly, one needs only to take a look at me before eleven a.m. “There’s a gym in the Space Center you should have access to.”

“I checked. It’s not free for contractors, and I’m not sure the health of my nervous system is worth seventy bucks a month.” Ari Shapiro is asking a correspondent about some Facebook lawsuit. “You run 5Ks?” I ask.

“No.”

My eyes narrow. “Is it because you only run marathons and above?”

“I . . .” He hesitates, looking sheepish. “I run half marathons, sometimes.”

“Well, then,” I say conversationally as he pulls into the parking lot, “thank you very much for the rescue and the ride, but I need to be alone so I can hate you in peace now.”

He laughs again. Why does it sound so nice? “Hey, I struggle with running, too.”

I’m sure he does. Around mile thirty-four or so. “Well, thanks. It’s the second time you saved me.” Despite the fact

that we’re nemeses. Outstanding, huh?

“The second?”

“Yeah.” I release the seat belt. “The other time was at work. When I was almost . . . pancaked?”

“Ah.” Something jumps in his jaw at the mention. “Yeah.”